“Norman of Torn,” he said, “so long as thou remain in England, pitting thy great host against the Plantagenet King and the nobles and barons of his realm, thou be but serving as the cats-paw of another. Thyself hast said an hundred times that thou knowst not the reason for thy hatred against them. Thou be too strong a man to so throw thy life uselessly away to satisfy the choler of another. “There be that of which I dare not speak to thee yet and only may I guess and dream of what I think, nor do I know whether I must hope that it be false or true, but now, if ever, the time hath come for the question to be settled. Thou hast not told me in so many words, but I be an old man and versed in reading true between the lines, and so I know that thou lovest Bertrade de Montfort. Nay, do not deny it. And now, what I would say be this. In all England there lives no more honorable man than Simon de Montfort, nor none who could more truly decide upon thy future and thy past. Thou may not understand of what I hint, but thou know that thou may trust me, Norman of Torn.” “Yea, even with my life and honor, my father,” replied the outlaw. “Then promise me, that with the old man of Torn alone, thou wilt come hither when I bidst thee and meet Simon de Montfort, and abide by his decision should my surmises concerning thee be correct. He will be the best judge of any in England, save two who must now remain nameless.” “I will come, Father, but it must be soon for on the fourth day we ride south.” “It shall be by the third day, or not at all,” replied Father Claude, and Norman of Torn, rising to leave, wondered at the moving leaves of the lilac bush without the window, for there was no breeze. Spizo, the Spaniard, reached Torn several minutes before the outlaw chief and had already poured his tale into the ears of the little, grim, gray, old man. As the priest’s words were detailed to him the old man of Torn paled in anger. “The fool priest will upset the whole work to which I have devoted near twenty years,” he muttered, “if I find not the means to quiet his half-wit tongue. Between priest and petticoat, it be all but ruined now. Well then, so much the sooner must I act, and I know not but that now be as good a time as any. If we come near enough to the King’s men on this trip south, the gibbet shall have its own, and a Plantagenet dog shall taste the fruits of his own tyranny,” then glancing up and realizing that Spizo, the Spaniard, had been a listener, the old man, scowling, cried: “What said I, sirrah? What didst hear?” “Naught, My Lord; thou didst but mutter incoherently,” replied the Spaniard. The old man eyed him closely. “An did I more, Spizo, thou heardst naught but muttering, remember.” “Yes, My Lord.” An hour later, the old man of Torn dismounted before the cottage of Father Claude and entered. “I am honored,” said the priest, rising.